PYRAMIDS ON THE MOON

My story is simple, really. I was born in a small arctic town. Back in the sixties. My father was a captain at sea, while my mom looked after me and my two brothers. A fairly pleasant childhood — though I found it a bit empty and lonely at times.

My main ambition as a teenager was to get away and become someone else. But I never left this place. Every time I tried, some unexpected obstacle would appear — almost mysteriously, like at the hand of some invisible ghost.

"My urge to dream up a new existence wasn't because the one I had was unbearable. It was just that my life seemed to provide the perfect canvas to create something new upon."

Years as an electrician. A family. A house. A routine. Then, in my fifties, something shifted — an unexpected desire to make music. I sold the old family Toyota to buy a modular synthesizer. The patch cables appealed to the wireman in me.

Looking at the blue waveform on screen, I tried "Waveform" — ten others had that name. Then I noticed a patch cable lying in the shape of the infinity symbol ∞. So I became Wave∞Form. When the screen read "published", I raised both arms and shouted "Yes!" to the empty house.

Lies. Lies. Lies. Don't believe a word I've been saying! Or, believe some. But be sceptical. Yes, I was born in the Arctic. Yes, my dad was a captain at sea. But my childhood was nothing like the other story describes. Dead boring.

Unlike the other version of myself, I actually escaped. I made it to Berlin. And Berlin in the late eighties and early nineties was everything — the Wall down, clubs opening in the ruins of the East, techno being born in real time.

"The TR-808 and the E-Mu SP-1200. Grainy samples and booming kicks blended with TB-303 basslines — mixed through a massive SSL desk onto analogue tape. Sonic heaven."

Records on R&S Records, Smalltown Supersound, Love OD Communications. Alongside Biosphere and Bjørn Torske — the first wave of Norwegian electronic musicians making an international mark.

But beneath the career: a circle of people in Berlin using sound to trigger endogenous DMT release. Dark rooms. Headphones. Dimensional travel. I encountered monstrous creatures. Saw small blue beings beyond the maelstrom. My whole being was ripped open.

And this is where I snap out of it, and realise that none of the previous introductions were correct. It's three o'clock. Wednesday. Early summer. I'm at home in East London. Upper Clapton. 43 Gunton Road. I've lived here since 1987. When I moved in, the house was a squat.

Hackney was filled with the most amazing people — every kind of freak from all over the world. Broken families, apartheid refugees, City brokers saving money. A successful day: enough cash for a ten-pack of cigarettes and half a pint of milk.

"Connected through disconnection. Detached from the Machine. Cities are our best reminders of who we are as a species — for better and worse."

In this timeline, the 2004 tsunami hit Northwestern Europe. Everything changed. In the aftermath, the Infoweb — a vast digital connectivity network — became the dominant reality. Most people live permanently plugged in.

I refuse. As a DisCon — Disconnected — I walk the streets of London on foot, navigating pre-determined routes, meeting Wave Survivors and fellow dissidents. Connected through disconnection. Detached from the Machine.